


Nothing Important Happened Today or My Therapist Made Me Do It

by soulgyrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9864863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulgyrl/pseuds/soulgyrl
Summary: A one-shot, alternate way for Sherlock and John to meet. It's still through Stamford, but different circumstances. Something important finally happens to John. And so it begins....





	

29 November 2009

So, I guess I’m to start keeping this bloody blog. And just what the hell am I supposed to say? Thompson (my therapist) seems to think it will be “therapeutic” if I put to paper (or computer I guess I should say) my day to day happenings, presumably so that I can see the progress I’ve made. Progress. How can I make any bloody progress when nothing ever happens? I rarely leave my depressingly, tiny flat as there’s nowhere to go; nowhere that I can afford anyway. I suppose I could look out a few of my post-army mates and see what they’re up to. But then again, what could I possibly have in common with any of _them_ anymore? I’ve changed, I know I have…and not necessarily towards the positive.

And when it comes to the chaps I did meet in service….well, I’m not faring any better there either. Sholto’s gone off and hid somewhere. Bilby, Fletcher, and Nannan have returned to their wives and children. Carlson’s mind is shot and Tulliver’s lost both legs. As for Behr, Gloski, Kurtmann, and Van der Hoff…all dead. The war is what glued us together. And the war is…over, at least for the likes of us.

 

26 December 2009

Thompson wasn’t impressed when she saw I hadn’t written a thing for three weeks, so I promised her I would do over Christmas. Well, here it is and I still don’t have a damn thing worth saying. As always, nothing important happened. I tried phoning Harry, twice, but as I expected, she didn’t answer. Never answered any of the texts I left, either. I didn’t really figure she would, so why did she send me that bloody phone as she obviously doesn’t care about staying in touch.

Chinese take-away…that was Christmas dinner. And I “splurged” and bought myself a Christmas present: the newest Stephen King. Of course, I haven’t been able to read more than half a dozen pages at a time; bloody concentration. I’ve been wondering if I should take on Dr. Fletcher’s offer of an anti-anxiety med. Not something that I really want to do, but if it will help calm my mind until I can get my f***in’ shit together… so I can get on with my bloody life… in _something_ _resembling_ a normal manner….well, then….

 

30 December 2009

Well, wonder of wonders. I ran into an old friend from my time at Bart’s, Mike Stamford, while doing a bit of grocery shopping yesterday. We agreed to meet up tomorrow night at the Lamb and Flag around nine. I guess we’ll chew the fat, catch up with each other’s lives, down a couple of pints, and perhaps a glass of champagne, to welcome in 2010. As I don’t see any other prospects on the horizon, I guess that’s as good of a New Year’s celebratory offer as I’m likely to get. Thompson should be pleased, at least; me stepping out of my “comfort zone” and all. I’ve decided to pass on the Xanax.

 

1 January 2010

Um…alright…where to begin? At the beginning I suppose, although I’ll probably end up deleting whatever I write here. I do not imagine it will be anything I would feel…. _comfortable_ sharing with Ms. Thompson. I don’t feel entirely comfortable writing it.

As I stated a couple of days ago, Stamford and I had agreed to meet at the Lamb and Flag. I had already downed a couple of shots by the time Mike arrived, having gotten there early out of sheer boredom. I related to him the sad saga of Harry’s marriage and impending divorce. And, no, I hadn’t found “the one”, in fact, I hadn’t really met anyone that piqued my interest in ages. Well, yes, there’s the odd date and shag now and then, but…

Of course, Mike insisted I tell the whole sordid tale of being wounded. My military experience is something I’m not really comfortable talking about at any length. At least not yet. I’ve gone through it all once with Thompson and that’s really as much as I care to discuss it, so I gave him the shortened version. I know I was honorably discharged and all…but it still stings a bit…still feels like a bit of a cop-out. Life goes on though, huh?

Mike talked about his teaching career and how life was marching along well for him. Apparently, he’s joined a boxing club and takes ballroom dancing lessons. God, I tried that once, the dancing, and made a bloody fool of myself, landing on my arse. It was fun, I will admit, but I fear I have two left feet. Anyway, we knocked back a few pints and soon the countdown began. 2010. Twenty-ten and here I am in my forty’s, invalided home from war, no permanent residence, no family to speak off, no immediate prospects for employment. Yep, this New Year was starting off with a bang alright. More like a dull thud.

And then I met… _him_.

When the clock struck midnight and the place exploded with everyone singing “Auld Lang Sine”, Mike and I realized we were the only two in the place not getting kissed or groped. Yeah, it was a little depressing. I knew I was facing a bleak, lonely night…hell…lonely _year_! I didn’t need it shoved in my face.

Then Mike got a bright idea. Would I be interested in checking out Bart’s for old time’s sake and all? He’d give me a tour of his classrooms, the lab, the morgue… anything or anywhere that tickled my fancy.

And I said why the hell not?

We had a devil of a time trying to find a cab, but finally reached Bart’s a little before one. The whole building appeared to be deserted. Mike gave me a tour of his classroom and then I expressed an interest in visiting the lab. It was here that we learned we were not alone.

He was bent over a counter, squeezing something out of a syringe into a petri dish. He looked up at us when we walked in and…

And quite honestly, I don’t know what the f**k happened. I was…zapped. I really don’t know how else to describe it. I’ve never had anything like it happen to me in all my damned, bloody life.

Mike was visibly startled to see the man there. _“Holmes_ , he’d shrieked, “ _What the devil_ _are you doing here on New Year’s Eve?”_

 _“I could ask you the same,”_ was the reply _._

 _Holmes_ stated that he was just finishing up a bit of work and would be leaving within five minutes. Mike asked him where he was going. He mumbled a bit about how he believed he hadn’t really eaten since the day before yesterday (?) and would probably head to Angelo’s, a favorite haunt, and grab a bite. Mike asked would he mind if we tagged along. That is, if _I_ was quite done looking around and wanted to; like I had anywhere else pressing to be. And anyway, for some bizarre reason…I _wanted_ to stay in this man’s presence…for a while….for the night….for as long as I could. I don’t know. What the hell?

Mike…finally…introduced us. The chap’s name was Sherlock Holmes. Holmes related that he was what he referred to as a “consulting detective” and often worked with D.I. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. According to Holmes, the whole lot of Lestrade’s staff were a bunch of imbeciles, incapable of finding their collective arses with their own two hands. I had no comment.

Unlike Mike and me earlier, Holmes had no trouble hailing a cab, and even less trouble relating to me my life’s history on the way to Angelo’s. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was flabbergasted, to say the least; I mean the man is brilliant….brilliant and… he relayed things about my past, and my family, that I haven’t told anyone…not even Thompson.  I have never thought of another man as beautiful before. At least, not that I recall, but…Sherlock! His eyes….his mouth! And such incredibly high, sharp cheekbones! I was thinking _dear god, I’m in trouble…_ then questioned myself why I was thinking that!

Despite his earlier statement about not eating for a day or so, he barely touched his food once he got it, and continued to impress me with his colossal memory and amazing powers of deduction. Within fifteen minutes, he had analyzed everyone in the bloody place and set Mike to laughing so hard I was afraid he might stroke out on me. Holmes acted slightly wounded that Mike found his analyses amusing, but I could sense he was actually relishing being the center of attention.

A large man with shocking red hair, commenced playing light jazz on a corner piano around 2:30, and a few still celebrating couples claimed the small space serving as a makeshift dance floor. An extremely intoxicated woman approached our table and tried her damnedest to get Sherlock to dance with her. He brushed her off with several rather rude remarks that appeared to faze her not a bit, and she turned her administrations to Mike, who was almost as smashed as she was, having downed two more pints and a double shot of Jameson Black Barrel since we had arrived. My friend happily accepted the lady’s invitation and proceeded to waltz her around the restaurant in a frenzied caper that in no way matched the beat of the music. Neither participant seemed to mind.

Holmes was quite amused by the whole scenario. At least I guess it was amusement...could just have easy as been disgust, now that I think about it. He also referred to all the males in the place as “tools”. He then inquired if I were a dancer. Of course, I had to admit that I most definitely was not. Then: would I be interested in a short lesson…perfect opportunity as everyone else was tanked-up and would pay us no mind?

I won’t lie; I was rather…put off by the whole thing… _at first_. Even though the man was brilliant… as well as a beautiful, he was….well…a _man_. I told myself I couldn’t catch a break. Where were all the young, lovely, unattached females? Were there _none_ out looking for a little love on this festive holiday night? But deep...somewhere inside, I knew that’s not what I _really_ wanted to happen.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes had unsettled me….I found myself fighting against the idea of dancing with another man in public, regardless that my crazy heart was telling me otherwise. I finally persuaded myself that one little dance wouldn’t hurt and that, yes, everyone else was too involved in their own merriment to care.

He was very prim and proper about it all to start with. He had convinced the piano man to play some waltz or other and gave me a “walk through” the movements before we set to it. About two minutes into the real thing, I realized that I had found my right foot, and although we wouldn’t be winning any prizes soon, we were drifting along fairly effortlessly.

The song was nearing its end when I realized something else: I was…happy. Being in such close proximity to this man for just a few short minutes had triggered emotions in me that I hadn’t utilized in some time. We weren’t exactly dancing cheek to cheek, but the feel of the man in my arms was…surprising. His scent was slightly odd. It was like a mixture of tobacco, sandalwood and….leather? Since when had I ever noticed a _man’s_ scent? It was all so… confusing. There was obvious sweat on his brow, but out of nerves or exertion I couldn’t be sure.

We returned to our table. Stamford and his dancing partner were nowhere to be seen. I could only imagine. Sherlock…I guess I’ll refer to him as Sherlock now…ordered one last shot for the two of us. The bar would be closing soon and I stated that I didn’t know if I should wait for Mike to show up or just assume he had made “other arrangements” and trod my way back to my depressingly dingy flat. I lamented the fact that I seriously needed to find other lodgings when Sherlock startled a bit. I gave him a questioning look and he hemmed and hawed around some seconds before speaking.

“John,” he started, “I’ve been on the hunt for a flatmate myself. I just moved into a nice little place on Baker Street. The landlady’s a friend of mine.”

I gave a low whistle. “Baker Street!” I replied. “That must cost an arm and a leg. I don’t think I could afford that, heart of the city and all. I’ve only got my Army pension at the moment.”

Sherlock went on to say that my temporary unemployment status wouldn’t be a problem. He had a bit tucked away and, as he said, the landlady…who I learned was one Martha Hudson…had given him a “ _very_ reasonable rate”. Seems he did her some tremendous favor in the past and I guess she figures she owes him one. Sherlock said to meet him in two evenings, 3 January, at seven and we could finalize the details. I thought it a bit of cheek, him just assuming I’ll take him up on the offer.

But…who am I fooling. Of _course_ … I will.

I decided to leave Mike to his own devices, _and_ his drunken dance partner, and find my own way home. Sherlock then suggested we share a cab, his treat.

He instructed the cabbie drive by 221B Baker Street first, just so I would know where I was going when the time came. He then exited the cab, paid the fare, and gave me a little wave and a wink before turning to his door. A _wink_!

I went back to my flat. But, a wink is something I could not sleep even one of for the rest of what remained of the night. Many….disturbing…but delightful…visions were running through my head.

And so, as I type this entry at 10:43 am, New Year’s Day, in the year 2010, I know that I cannot add: _nothing important happened today_.

 

 

 

 


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